


Bad Timing

by Sheryl_Holmes



Series: Geraskier One-Shots [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bathing/Washing, Emotionally Repressed Jaskier, Everyone is fucking protective in this fic, Geralt is only afraid when it has to do with Jaskier, Geraskier Week, Geraskier Week 2020, Jaskier is only brave when it has to do with Geralt, M/M, Monster of the Week, One-Shot, Protection, Protective!Geralt, Unendingly Patient Geralt, protective!Jaskier
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-28 06:46:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,145
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22759480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sheryl_Holmes/pseuds/Sheryl_Holmes
Summary: Jaskier has the worst timing for starting (would-be lover’s) quarrels, and Geralt is none-too-happy that he followed him into a monster battle because he was WORRIED about him.“I told you to stay at the inn.  You AGREED to stay at the inn.”“Yes, well,” Jaskier replied, with some bitterness in his tone, “I WAS tired, but that was BEFORE I knew you were planning to capture a child-feasting demon tonight.  Slightly changed my calculus,” he snarked.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Geraskier One-Shots [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1634668
Comments: 27
Kudos: 347
Collections: Abby's Witcher Collection





	Bad Timing

**Author's Note:**

> My dudes, this is a LONG-ASS one-shot for me. I mean, more than 8,000 words is a shit-ton for me to write in a single sitting.  
> Anyway, I want to clarify that this story is not a continuation of my soulmates one-shot, Until the Seas Run Dry. This is a standalone fic that does not involve soulmarks.  
> I also took liberties with the mythology of the monster of the week.  
> This is my Day 2 of Geraskier Week 2020, but since it is technically being uploaded on Day 3, I decided to merge the prompts. The prompt for Day 2 was “Monster Hunt,” and the prompt for Day 3 was “Protection.” This is a Monster Hunt with a background theme of Protection.  
> Enjoy!

i: The Details

The relationship was new enough that the finer details hadn’t quite been ironed out yet. For instance: Was this a relationship?

No, but seriously. Jaskier had been trying to figure out what exactly it was he had with Geralt for the past two weeks. In fact, if it weren’t for the way he saw Geralt’s amber-jewel eyes occasionally fall on his form (and the man would _smirk_ , for fuck’s sake), Jaskier would have been sure that it had all just been some kind of goddamned fever dream. Maybe it _was_ a fever dream—maybe Geralt just found the bard generally amusing. 

Jaskier was losing his mind. He really wanted to broach the topic, because honestly, that was the problem here, anyway, but he couldn’t seem to get up the nerve to do it. They’d fallen into a somewhat comfortable state of being these past few days and, even if it _hadn’t_ been a fever dream, Jaskier didn’t want to make things awkward. Perhaps Geralt regretted it? It had only been a kiss, after all. One measly kiss.

One kiss that had rendered Jaskier completely speechless and begged his heart to come crashing out of its prison in his chest. One kiss that had seared his lips and swallowed his coherent mind. One single fucking kiss. That bastard hadn’t even seen fit to give him more than _one fucking kiss._

Jaskier shook his head to snap himself out of it. That had been two weeks ago; this was now. Now, with Jaskier walking alongside Geralt as he sat astride Roach, trotting merrily down the road. Now, with the sunlight catching on Geralt’s hair and shining like a halo while Jaskier gazed up at his Adonis helplessly. Now, heading toward a village to find a job to do so they could get some food into their bellies.

Geralt glanced down at Jaskier, who appeared to be arguing with himself under his breath. Geralt had hearing that surpassed that of a non-mutated human, but he couldn’t make out what Jaskier was saying because none of it was full sentences or even really words, just hums accompanied by attitudes. Annoyed hums, aggravated hums, frustrated hums, self-flagellating hums, and bitter hums. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt grunted, tugging Roach’s reins into a temporary halt. The bard nearly jumped out of his skin, spinning toward Geralt and holding his lute behind his back as if to protect it from an attacker.

“Wha—What?”

“You’re thinking too loudly.”

Jaskier blinked, his eyes going wide. “Oh my God—was I—did I say that _out loud?_ ”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “No, you weren’t _saying_ anything, just humming a lot. Anything I should know abo—”

“No!” Jaskier interrupted him, which didn’t seem suspicious at all. “No, no. Nothing.” He tried to smile, but it looked panicked. Geralt shrugged. Fine, he didn’t want to talk, far be it from Geralt to make him.

They continued down the road, with Jaskier falling a bit behind this time. He tried to strike up a song, but no words came to mind. At least, none that he’d want Geralt to hear.

ii: The Good Guys

“Please, witcher! The monster has been drowning our children!” Behind the farmer, sitting in the back of the room, a woman sat sobbing into her handkerchief. Jaskier’s heart went out to her, but Geralt seemed unaffected.

They’d arrived at the village and, not three minutes into their arrival, they’d been approached by a frenzied man who had recognized Geralt “from the songs.” Jaskier had preened, and Geralt had tersely asked what the man wanted. He had taken them straightaway to another farmer, in his mid-forties with prematurely greying hair who was apparently the town leader during a time of crisis. 

The crisis, it seemed, was a creature of fearsome description that enjoyed snatching children to drag into the nearby lake. 

“What does it look like?” Geralt asked, standing in the front room of the small wooden farmhouse, still ignoring the weeping mother. Jaskier shot his friend ( _friend?_ ) a dirty look and walked around the farmer, his boots echoing heavily on the old floorboards. 

“It was something like a wolf, but I cannot say with certainty. It was our son that got a good look at it before it took our daughter.” On “daughter,” the broad-shouldered man’s voice cracked, and his wife’s sobs took on an even more broken quality. Jaskier rubbed her back and wrapped his arms around her thin frame. She turned into his embrace, her shoulders heaving forcefully as she keened. “We don’t have much,” the farmer was saying, “but we can pay you in food, and some small amount of coin.” Geralt didn’t ask how much a “small amount” was; he imagined it was minimal at best. Behind the farmer, he saw Jaskier rest his chin on the top of the grieving mother’s head, his hands loosely clutching her shoulders. The bard’s face was contorted into a horrible mask of sympathy, his eyes wide and his throat bobbing. Geralt watched them for a moment, his expression unreadable, before turning back to the farmer.

“Your son, where is he?”

The farmer’s face bloomed with hope. “In the back. He hasn’t spoken much since it happened a fortnight ago.” 

“Go fetch him,” Geralt ordered, and the man immediately left through the door in the back of the room.

While Geralt waited for him to return, his gaze fell on the figure of Jaskier, who was now gently humming a lullaby to the woman in rags curled in on herself. Unbidden, the thought of Jaskier showing the same care for his own mother came to the forefront of Geralt’s mind, and he wondered if Jaskier missed her. He didn’t even realize he had been staring until the farmer cleared his throat, and Geralt turned to see he had presented him with a boy of perhaps ten years.

At seeing the newest addition to the conversation, Jaskier perked up. “This is Filip,” the farmer said, “Filip, this is the witcher come to help us.”

The dark-haired child looked up at Geralt with big blue eyes, the monster hunter easily twice his height, and seemed to shrink into himself. He already had the aura of a child broken. Geralt, to Jaskier’s shock, knelt down, resting an elbow on one knee, and gave the child a genuine smile. Something in Jaskier’s chest swelled.

“Hello, Filip,” he said, voice kind, “You can call me Geralt.” And, bless him, he held out a gloved hand. The tiny boy looked at it blankly for a moment, but Geralt was patient. His father tapped him on the shoulder, and the boy reached out to take Geralt’s hand. The witcher’s smile grew, and he gave Filip’s hand a little shake. “Now, do you mind if I ask you some questions, Filip?”

The boy bent his neck to give his father behind him a wordless plea, but his father said nothing. Geralt’s voice brought Filip’s gaze back down to the man kneeling before him. “I know it is difficult to talk about. But your father and I are trying to stop the creature that did this, Filip. Can you help me?”

The boy’s face deflated more. “I couldn’t save Zofia,” he murmured softly. Geralt’s face morphed into one of sympathy, and he heard Jaskier swallow thickly on the other side of the room, his arms still wrapped around the now-quiet mother.

“I know, little one. But you were brave to try,” and he rested one heavy palm on the child’s shoulder. “And now, if you are brave enough again, you can help save little girls like your sister.”

The child sniffled, but he squared his shoulders. He nodded once. Geralt gave him a small smile, as if he were proud of him. “Alright, Filip. Can you tell me when this happened and where?”

“About two weeks ago,” he said, voice shaking. “I was walking with Zofia through the woods. We’d stayed out too long and lost our way. When we made it to the old castle by the lake, Zofia said she’d seen something run quickly between the trees, but it was getting dark, and I couldn’t see anything. I told her to get into the castle so we could shut the door, but it was so fast. It took her like a hawk takes fish, and I saw it fly through the air with her screaming. And then it dove into the water, and even after I tried to swim after it, I couldn’t hold my breath long enough to find her. I searched and called her name, but—” The child started to gasp for air, and Geralt squeezed his shoulder.

“It is alright, little one. You did more than most grown men would do at seeing such a thing. Can you tell me what it _looked_ like?”

Filip nodded quickly, swallowing down the tears. “Yes—it—it looked like a black wolf, but it had wings like a bat. Except the wings—they were shiny and green, like a beetle. And it had sharp talons on its wings and feet.”

“And its eyes?” Geralt pressed. “Did you see them?”

The child looked very afraid, now. He whispered, “Yes. They were glowing red.”

Geralt’s jaw worked, and his expression was especially serious. He sighed heavily, then clapped Filip on the shoulder. “Thank you, Filip. You have been very brave, and very helpful. Zofia would be proud.”

The little boy stood up straighter at that and swiped at tears on his cheeks. Geralt rose again to his full height, facing Filip’s father.

“Who lives in the castle?”

“No one. It has been abandoned for years, for this very reason. A creature is said to live near the lake, one that drove out the viscount of these parts. The viscount lives farther away now, and he could not care less about the safety of his people.” 

Geralt nodded. He was well-acquainted with the cowardice of appointed leaders. “If the creature has lived there for so long, why is it only now taking children?”

The farmer shrugged. “I do not know, witcher. The villagers believed the viscount had done something to handle the problem fifteen years ago, but never explained what. Your guess is as good as mine why it has only returned now.”

The witcher hummed, then titled his head at Jaskier as if to say _Let’s take our leave._ The bard gave the woman one last embrace, then stood. She smiled sadly after him, giving his hand a squeeze, as her husband showed them to the door.

As they stepped off the porch of the little farmhouse, Jaskier asked, voice low, if Geralt was familiar with what horrendous creature Filip had described.

“A kludde. Faster than the human eye, its wings act like an impenetrable exoskeleton, and if you manage to kill one, its corpse will give birth to two more by the next night.” 

“Shiiit,” Jaskier murmured. “Then what the hell are we supposed to do with it?”

“ _I_ ,” Geralt corrected, arching an eyebrow, “will have to capture it.”

Jaskier’s face betrayed his lack of confidence, and he was practically sputtering. “ _Capture?_ You’re going to _capture_ the speedy flying werewolf with armored wings that can breathe underwater?” Geralt ignored this unhelpful recap.

As Geralt began to mount Roach, the little boy came running out of the house, panting. Geralt paused in his efforts, turning to the child. He stood in front of them, and the witcher raised one eyebrow expectantly. “Godspeed, Sir Geralt,” the boy said, finally, his voice stern for a child. Then he ran back into the house, his father looking surprised as ever that the boy had some of the life back in his face.

Geralt remained still, staring after the boy. Jaskier bit.

“What is it?”

“Do you ever notice, Dandelion, how it seems to only be children and old acquaintances who call me by my name, and not ‘witcher’?”

Jaskier could only offer him a sad smile in return. 

iii: Fever Dream

He usually didn’t worry this much—in fact, in the past, Jaskier had had an almost cavalier self-assurance that Geralt, no matter what beast he was facing, would always be fine. Tonight, this was not the case.

Jaskier was supposed to stay at the inn and sleep the night away while Geralt went to talk with the viscount. But he couldn’t sleep. He tried, he really did, but instead he found himself recalling their kiss two weeks before. In a twilight state of dreaming, he tossed and turned, the image of Geralt sluiced in troll blood dancing before his eyes.

_Geralt was carefully stripping the shirt from his torso, clinging to him as it was with the drying life-juice of an unfriendly giant. Jaskier sat silently at the other end of the room in the inn, trying very hard not to let it show how shaky he was. He didn’t know what it was, but lately he had been getting jumpy whenever Geralt went out to face down some fearsome thing._

_That was a lie; he knew **exactly** what it was, but there wasn’t a chance in hell he’d admit that out loud._

_Geralt threw the shirt into a bucket of suds, then continued the gory striptease. Jaskier had seen him bare a thousand and one times, but something about it right now made him feel uneasy. Granted, he found Geralt to be unendingly attractive, but this time that was the last thing on his mind. The bard knew that as soon as Geralt removed his pants tonight, Jaskier would bear witness to a long, fresh wound on the witcher’s outer thigh, and Jaskier wasn’t sure he could look at it without crying._

_He averted his eyes, and it seemed Geralt noticed, because he made a little amused sound in the back of his throat. Perhaps he thought Jaskier had some newfound sense of decorum. He lowered himself into the steaming water._

_“Help me with my back?” the witcher asked gruffly. Jaskier rubbed a hand over his face. “What’s wrong?”_

_“Nothing,” Jaskier lied. “Just tired. You came back so late that it interrupted my sleep.” He stood then, rolling up his sleeves, still refusing to look at Geralt, afraid to see blood in the water._

_He carefully poured soap onto a rag, breathing deliberately through his nose, batting his eyelids against the onslaught of emotion. He thanked God his back was turned to Geralt and hoped the powerful scents of blood and chamomile overpowered his witcher senses enough to mask the saline threatening to spill over onto Jaskier’s cheeks._

_He cleared his throat and turned, then, brightly grinning. “Let’s get that rotten filth off you, shall we?” Thick strings of clotted blood clung to his hair and neck. With tender hands, Jaskier peeled the strands of hair apart and poured water through them. He dragged the rag across Geralt’s spine, down lengths of scarred skin. It was only supposed to be his back that he helped with, but tonight Jaskier got lost in his task. His hands roamed across Geralt’s chest, his arms and hands. He scrubbed gently under every fingernail, as if in a trance. He washed away filth on knees and ankles and feet, pouring more and more soap onto the rag and adding buckets full of still-warm water at intervals. This went on for longer than any other bath he had seen or helped Geralt take, and he didn’t know why the witcher didn’t stop him; in fact, he was so engrossed in his efforts that he hadn’t even stopped to think that question._

_It was when he got to Geralt’s left thigh that the spell was broken. His hands had dipped below the water line and felt the soft, split tissue still seeping with some blood. Geralt hadn’t even hissed at the contact, so used to pain as he was. And it was that thought that broke him. Jaskier’s hands fell limp in the water, still kneeling onto the inn floor, and he hung his head. The rag floated to the surface as his fingers lost their grip. Silent sobs took over him, and his shoulders quaked with their intensity._

_“Jaskier,” Geralt’s voice called softly. Jaskier shook his head, embarrassed but still unable to stop. He tried to hide his face, tried to stand, but Geralt’s left hand gripped his upper arm just firmly enough to drag him back down. His fingers stayed wrapped there, around Jaskier’s undershirt, and Jaskier covered his face with one wet hand. He heard the water splash as Geralt shifted, leaning forward. His breath was hot and near as Jaskier tried to regain control. “Jaskier,” Geralt called again, his voice but a whisper near Jaskier’s ear._

_Finally, Jaskier lowered his hand and opened his eyes, apologetically meeting Geralt’s gaze. But what he found in those amber eyes leveled him like a storm does a tree. It was neither condescension nor disgust in Geralt’s expression, but some kind of burning imploration—less an appeal than a demand. Jaskier stopped crying, hiccoughs going quiet. There was a long moment wherein neither man moved. The smell of blood and chamomile was in the air, the sparse few candles burned low on the tables, and the only sounds were of their breathing._

_And then Geralt’s right hand, moving neither fast nor slow, found purchase at the nape of Jaskier’s neck, under his dark brown hair, and he pulled the bard closer. Jaskier complied, suddenly his heartbeat thrumming quickly. They were sharing air now, with only centimeters between them, a tension in that space so taut Jaskier could feel it as if it were a palpable wire connecting them. Geralt’s eyes moved from meeting Jaskier’s blue irises to glancing at his bard’s lips. Jaskier made no move to pull away. He leaned forward, an instinctive reaction, just a breadth closer. Geralt took this as assent, and he pressed their lips together._

_It was brief—so, so brief. But it was an eternity. Jaskier could taste blood even in Geralt’s mouth, but something about that felt **right** and **as it should be**. It was therefore unexpected that Geralt should touch Jaskier as if he were something precious, yet his hand never pressed hard on the back of his neck, and his lips were soft as they moved. Jaskier felt rather than heard a sound from deep in Geralt’s chest, like a large cat’s purr. And he leaned forward, trying to get closer, hoping for more, just as Geralt pulled away. Half a foot was now between them, and Jaskier gave but one gasp before he returned to breathing heavily through his nose. Geralt’s hands were still on him—his left hand clutching his arm, somewhat firm, and his right hand cupped around the side of his neck, his thumb resting on Jaskier’s cheek._

_Geralt’s head tilted forward, forcing Jaskier to meet his stare—as if the bard would ever think to look away **now**. “I’ll always come back,” he spoke but a low reverberation. Quiet as the declaration was, it was insistent in its finality. Jaskier nodded slowly and swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. _

_Geralt released him, his hands returning to the dirty bathwater, his elbows on the sides of the tub, and he leaned back with his eyes closed. Jaskier blinked several times, feeling bereft of Geralt’s touch._

_How did he do that? **Geralt** was the one naked, yet Jaskier was the one who felt stripped._

_After a moment of composing himself, Jaskier cleared his throat and reached for the rag. As he began to carefully scrub down Geralt’s thighs, one of the witcher’s unearthly eyes lazily opened to watch. In the corner of his eye, Jaskier saw him smirk._

Stirring from the memory, Jaskier found himself studying the ceiling in the dark. It had felt so perfect, so unhurried, that night. Beyond even the brief kiss, Geralt’s touches had felt at once possessive and affectionate in a way that Jaskier hadn’t known Geralt to be capable of. He sighed and ran his fingers through his hair, trying to rid himself of the memory for the time being. He truly did need to sleep. Outside, he heard a horse whinny. 

Jaskier shot up in bed like a bullet. That horse was _Roach._ Geralt had _tied up Roach_ before he left. He only tied up Roach when he was afraid where he was going would put the horse in danger.

That _fucker_ wasn’t going to the viscount’s home; he was going to the motherfucking castle to capture the beast from _hell._

Seething, Jaskier threw off the covers.

iv: Bad Timing

Corpses. Fucking corpses, wearing rags and in chains, littered the floor of the empty castle. Geralt covered his mouth with his forearm, grimacing. So, this was the viscount’s “solution”? Throw the bodies of executed prisoners into the castle to hold over the beast so that it wouldn’t terrorize the village? If he had bothered to ask someone with knowledge, they would have told him that such a solution, while unethical, also could not last for long. Kluddes prefer fresh flesh, and whoever had last made the trip to drop off these corpses had gotten lazy. Most of these bodies were rotting at the same rate; they’d dropped off a large load, hoping the kludde would remain full by rationing its own supply. Clearly that hadn’t worked, as these were far too decomposed to be of any interest to the beast, and it didn’t look to be that the viscount had sent any fresh bodies since the first attack two weeks prior; clearly, no one had the balls to make the trip, afraid _they_ would become the meal.

It only was a matter of time before someone—sadly, that someone being little Zofia—wandered near the lake at night and reminded the kludde of the taste of fresh human meat. No wonder it had been venturing into the village in search of more victims. 

Geralt walked further into the castle, sniffing the air. He figured he had a good hour more before the beast made an appearance, rising from its daily sanctuary in the lake. It would come first to the castle as soon as it smelled him; he may be mutated, but he was still good meat.

But as he sniffed, he found an odd scent that he hadn’t expected. Well, that couldn’t be, he was sleeping— “God _dammit_ ,” Geralt swore, breaking into a run toward the scent.

Jaskier quietly stole into the castle, a protectiveness and _need_ to see that Geralt was okay fueling his uncanny courage. That courage nearly melted away once he smelled the wretched scent of death that pervaded the whole place, from the stone floor to the high rafters of the great hall. He coughed and held his shirt to his face, still dressed in his sleepshirt. At least he’d had the mind to put on pants, but so consumed with the need to make sure Geralt was still breathing was he that Jaskier had failed entirely to bring any sort of weapon—assuming, even, that he knew how to use one. He had simply run into the woods in the darkness, toward the direction the farmer had indicated one could find the lake. All things considered, Jaskier was lucky he had even found the structure, having no real sense of direction. He supposed it must be his internal compass, which seemed to infallibly point toward a white-haired witcher. 

He wandered deeper into the castle until he reached a small cul de sac down the end of a hall. He rested his fists on his hips, wondering where he ought to go at this point, and hoping desperately that he hadn’t made a terrible miscalculation—that perhaps Geralt actually _was_ at the viscount’s abode, interrogating him at midnight on a Sunday, while Jaskier was a sitting duck on the kludde’s hunting ground. Cold terror slid into his stomach.

The courage melted completely the moment he felt a gloved hand clasp over his mouth. He nearly screamed until he heard Geralt’s voice bark next to his ear, “What are you doing here, Jaskier?”

The witcher released him, and Jaskier stumbled backward several feet. Bless him, he _grinned_ at Geralt’s fuming face. “Oh, thank _God!_ I was afraid you’d actually told the _truth_ and gone to the viscount’s house.” 

Geralt pursed his lips and gave Jaskier his sternest face. “I told you to stay at the inn. You _agreed_ to stay at the inn.”

“Yes, well,” Jaskier replied, with some bitterness in his tone, “I _was_ tired, but that was _before_ I knew you were planning to capture a child-feasting demon tonight. Slightly changed my calculus,” he snarked.

“Why?”

“What do you mean, _why?_ ” Jaskier recoiled as if Geralt were crazy. “You’re in danger, you walked straight into the mouth of hell and didn’t even have the decency to tell me!”

“Last time I told you,” his voice was measured, but tight, “you worried the whole damn night.”

“Of course, I worried!” Jaskier hissed. “Are you fucking off your rocker? And I had every right to be worried, you were bleeding like a sieve!”

Geralt hummed. “And how, exactly, does you being here make me more likely to come back alive, Jaskier? Didn’t you consider that you might be a distraction? That it might make my job more _difficult?_ ”

To this, Jaskier only huffed. There seemed to be something guilty in the angle of his mouth, but Geralt couldn’t quite tell. He mostly seemed indignant.

They stood like that, neither speaking, until Jaskier finally broke the silence. “What now?”

“Now,” Geralt replied, turning to the opening of the hallway, “we wait for it to wake.”

He was glad, at least, that Jaskier had walked into this hall. While he wasn’t fond of cul de sacs, at the very least from this position he could guarantee the kludde would attack him before it could reach his bard. He drew his sword and listened for the sound of something emerging from water.

Except he couldn’t quite concentrate.

Shaking his head once, Geralt locked his jaw, as if trying to rid himself of a pesky thought and focus on the task at hand. But after a moment, it seemed the thought wasn’t going anywhere, and Geralt snapped. “What is it? You’ve been acting…,” he chewed on the word before settling on, “strange.” It sounded like it cost him something to ask, but Jaskier couldn’t tell what. His voice even sounded a bit gentle, or at least as gentle as Geralt was capable of being (short of when his lips were on Jaskier’s, which was apparently as rare as a fucking blue moon by now).

“Strange? Strange how?” Jaskier played dumb, his voice an octave too high. He couldn’t read Geralt like this, his back turned to him while the witcher was in his battle stance, silver sword resting point-down on the ground until it was needed. Not that he could _ever_ read him.

Geralt spoke over his shoulder, and Jaskier saw his profile through silver-white hair. “Don’t be coy, Dandelion. You know.”

Jaskier bristled at the nickname; it had always felt so special to have Geralt calling him by a pet name, but given his current bitterness, it only served to incense him. “Now? Right _now_ , you want to have this conversation?” Jaskier gestured at their surroundings, impeded on all sides by damp castle walls and eerie moonlight through high windows. “We’re waiting to be _attacked_ by a fucking—”

“You don’t sing your blasted songs half as often as usual,” Geralt turned to him, holding his silver blade at his side, and pointedly ignored Jaskier’s best attempts to swerve the topic, “you’ve quit the inane chatter, and I haven’t seen you smile properly in weeks.”

Jaskier was stunned by these observations, blinking at Geralt’s impassive and unusually open face. “I—well,” he replied hotly, “you’ve always been the one who hated my songs and my chatter and my—”

“I _never_ said I disliked your smile,” Geralt growled, as if daring him to say such a sacrilegious thing. Jaskier didn’t know how to respond to this, struck by the _possessiveness_ of his tone, but Geralt continued. “And I got used to the singing and the chatter. So, what is it? Spit it out.”

 _I got used to the singing and the chatter_ may as well have been glowing praise, coming from Geralt, and Jaskier found himself blushing.

“I thought we were ignoring this topic,” Jaskier said finally, quietly. He huffed, hands on his hips and looking anywhere but at Geralt. 

At first, Geralt’s eyebrows drew together in confusion. It was a delayed reaction, but finally it dawned on the witcher what his bard meant.

Geralt’s nostrils flared—with anger or to stay alert, Jaskier didn’t know, but the witcher’s chest was also heaving. “If you wanted to avoid the topic,” Geralt’s voice was low and dangerous, “then perhaps you shouldn’t be acting so goddamn petulant.”

“Oh, _petulant!_ ” Jaskier shouted, his arms going wide in his best _come-and-get-me-fucker_ pose. “Isn’t that word a bit big for you, _witcher?_ ” 

Geralt snarled at first, but then stopped and sniffed the air. Jaskier, oblivious to the shift in atmosphere, kept going. “And _I’m_ being petulant? _You’re_ the one who has been avoiding the topic like it’s a damn striga!”

“Keep your voice down,” he warned. But Jaskier snorted.

“Oh, you bait me into this discussion in the middle of a fucking _monster hunt_ , and then have the gall to tell me to be _quiet?_ ” His tone was derisive. He guffawed, put both hands on his hips, and leaned forward, eyes glaring accusingly at his amber-eyed companion. “Fucking _unbelievable!_ ”

“ _Jaskier_ ,” Geralt hissed, leaning forward with his sword at the ready, but the bard was too keyed up to be hushed.

“No, _you!_ _You_ shut up, I’m having my damn say now, _thank you very much!_ ”

Something he said a moment prior caught up to Geralt, and he straightened abruptly to turn to Jaskier, his voice condescending. “I don’t _avoid_ striga, Jaskier.”

Jaskier laughed at this, contempt in his face. “Ah, yes! The great White Wolf, the man who faces down monsters but _runs from his fucking feelings._ ”

Geralt narrowed his eyes at him. “What the fuck are you talking about?”

Before Jaskier had a chance to deliver his scathing reply, Geralt’s eyes blew wide and black with the effects of his potion, and instincts took over. In an instant, he was heaving his sword in a long curve, meeting the kludde in mid-air.

Jaskier, to his credit, didn’t scream. But he did cough out a very frantic, understated, “ _Fuuuuuuck._ ”

The sound of the silver meeting the kludde’s armored wings, which glittered like green and purple jewels in the moonlight, was a loud clash like metal on metal. It thrashed against the wall, and, faster than the bard could blink, was on its hindlegs with its claws extended and its jaw stretched open wide. Wolf-like fangs lined its mouth as it stood over Geralt, at least one-and-a-half times his size. And Jaskier was cornered into a goddamn cul de sac.

Geralt swung the sword at the creature’s legs, but a single wing arched outward and threw it from his hands. “Shit,” he muttered. The kludde screamed, and Jaskier crouched onto the ground to cover his ears from the hideous sound. Geralt, despite his enhanced hearing, took the sound in stride and used the opportunity to ram a silver knife—coated, it seemed, in something that Jaskier couldn’t see properly in the dim lighting—directly into the kludde’s stomach.

The great wings—shaped like a bat’s, massive in wingspan as the length of two horses, and tipped with terrifying claws—clinked like chainmail as they enveloped the witcher. 

Jaskier screamed back.

Its head disappeared into the cocoon of its wings, and Geralt made an angry, pained groan. Blood spilled through the bottom of the wings, and the kludde stumbled backward. Something in Jaskier’s head broke, and stupidly, he rushed forward to grasp the hilt of Geralt’s hefty sword. As the creature fought with Geralt within the confines of its armored arms, Jaskier took aim and brought the sword down heavily enough to sever the front half of the creature’s foot. Blackish blood gushed from the wound, taloned toes shriveling in place. It screamed again, this time a screech of pure agony, as it reared its hideous face, eyes blazing red, from the shelter of its wings. It kicked Jaskier with the bleeding nub he left of its leg. He went careening toward the far wall, hitting it hard and falling seven feet to the stone floor. He gasped, the wind knocked from his body. 

With blurred vision, he saw the kludde drop Geralt from its wings like a dark parody of birth, the witcher falling weightily but landing on his feet. He glanced down, perplexed, at the creature’s foot (or, rather, the lack thereof), as it struggled to hover so as not to put weight on its leg. “What the fuck?” Momentarily distracted, he wasn’t fast enough to avoid as the creature used its last good leg to grasp onto Geralt’s arm, thankfully covered in armor. 

It began to gain height, massive wings fanning the air in great strokes, as Geralt struggled mid-air. But, it was thrown so significantly off balance by the loss of one foot and the weight of Geralt hanging off the other that it unexpectantly crashed into the wall of the hallway, about twelve feet in the air. It also seemed to be…dizzy?

Geralt fell from the height and, unlike Jaskier, was able to roll into the fall. He stood, several feet away, as the kludde panicked above him, unable to gain equilibrium. This was when Geralt reached behind him to uncoil a long, silver chain from his belt. 

Jaskier’s vision was clearing up, and the image he was graced with was one he wouldn’t have given up for the whole Continent. Geralt swung the chain in broad strokes, the silver glinting in the moonlight, his back turned to the bard. His shoulders were squared, his stance confident, and his hair caught the light, seeming as silver as the chain itself. Above them, halfway to the rafters in the castle’s ceiling, the fire-eyed kludde grunted, its fur inky black and its wings bejeweled like colossal iridescent scarab beetles. It was a vibrant, kaleidoscopic chiaroscuro.

The creature lost height as it was overcome with a fresh wave of nausea, suddenly sluggish.

Geralt released the chain, and the metal sung as it sped through the air to wrap around the kludde’s throat. It continued to screech as he dragged it to the ground, and even more so as he pulled out a bottle and bit the cork, spitting it onto the floor. Tugging hard on the chain, he pulled the wolf-bat close enough to toss the liquid onto the wounds he’d left in its abdomen. 

The sound it made almost sounded like it was crying, but Jaskier didn’t have much pity after it had tried to kill his witcher.

After a good minute of Geralt holding the chain taut and the creature whimpering, it eventually stopped moving. 

From his position against the wall, Jaskier called out to Geralt: “Is it dead?”

Geralt turned to look at Jaskier over his shoulder, veins spreading through white skin around black eyes. Jaskier held his breath. “Don’t. Fucking. Move.”

And then he was dragging the creature across the castle floor, leaving a streak of its blood across the stones.

v: Fragile

Jaskier waited for ten minutes. In the distance he heard a loud splash, then a second one following it. 

When Geralt swaggered back into the castle, his visage still held the signs of his potion and witcher abilities, and he was drenched head-to-toe in water. He strode toward Jaskier with an ugly determination, a snarl in the curl of his lip that had Jaskier feeling uneasy. He stared up helplessly as Geralt came to stand directly in front of him.

The witcher reached down, grabbed the bard by his blood-smeared nightshirt, and hauled him to his feet as he clambered to stand up. Geralt roughly pressed him against the stone wall and put his face about an inch from Jaskier’s. Jaskier’s feet dangled somewhat, and he tried to find purchase on the stone floor with the balls of his feet, his fingers futilely wrapping around Geralt’s wrists. A little puddle formed on the ground where Geralt stood, water from the lake steadily dripping off his form.

“What. The fuck. Is wrong with you?” He tilted his head sharply, inhuman eyes seeking Jaskier’s as he punctuated each phrase. The bard swallowed and leaned his head backward, trying to put space between his face and Geralt’s rage.

“So many things,” was the somewhat jovial answer Jaskier settled for, spreading his hands out in front of him. Geralt snarled. 

“You could have died coming here,” Geralt barked.

Jaskier’s mood quickly went from cowed to irate, hands returning to grip Geralt’s wrists. “And _you_ could have been injured even more than you already were if I _hadn’t_.”

“Why,” Geralt hissed, ignoring that suggestion, leaning in closer, “did you follow me?”

Jaskier deflated somewhat. His hands dropped from Geralt’s wrists, and he sighed. “I—fuck.” He groaned, hitting the back of his head against the wall behind him in frustration. “It’s—okay, listen, I can admit it’s absurd, but I can’t help it.”

“Help _what,_ Jaskier? Use your fucking words,” he pressed, setting the bard back on his feet but giving him no room to escape, still grasping his nightshirt. That enraged frown was still etched onto his face.

Jaskier stared up at Geralt, still very much the witcher he knew and— _well_ , you know—even with his eyes decidedly more black than amber. “I wanted to protect you,” he admitted.

Geralt’s eyebrows shot up. And then he was laughing. It was a discordant look, black eyes and white skin lined with swollen veins laughing in Jaskier’s face. Mirthful chuckles absolutely mocked the idea that Jaskier could _ever_ protect Geralt. Except he had, just moments earlier.

“Hey,” Jaskier groused as Geralt’s hands dropped from his shirt and he took a step back, “I chopped off its fucking foot, didn’t I? Doesn’t that count for anything?”

That’s when the laughter stopped, because Geralt was suddenly looking at him again with a very serious expression.

“It kicked you into the wall, Jaskier,” he replied flatly.

Jaskier didn’t respond to this.

“You could have broken your back or your ribs or _worse_.” Geralt’s voice dropped a register. “For a moment, I thought the fall had paralyzed you.” Jaskier’s eyes went wide at that. 

Then, despite himself, the bard decided to go for the jugular. “Well, then I guess now you fucking know how it feels, don’t you?”

In an instant, he was crowding Jaskier’s space again, caging him in with both arms against the wall. “Don’t you dare compare it, Jaskier. _You are human_. _You are fragile. **I could lose you.**_ ”

“Would that really be so awful for you?” The words had come out unbidden, without Jaskier’s permission. He wished he could take them back for the way Geralt’s face crumpled, then reflected fury in quick succession.

“ _What did you just say to me?_ ”

Jaskier tried to backpedal. “I—I didn’t mean that. Geralt, I—” The witcher was walking away, and Jaskier tripped forward to follow, but his body was weak and sore from being used as a flying wolf’s punching bag. Luckily, it looked as if Geralt was less running from the conversation so much as he was pacing in anger. He turned back to Jaskier and strode back to stand in front of him, grabbing his shoulders to force him to look him in the eye properly.

“Do you actually believe that, Dandelion? That I want you gone?”

“No!” Jaskier shook his head emphatically. “No, I just—when you leave me behind I just—for God’s sake, Geralt, I _worry_ about you, and you don’t seem to even be aware of it!”

“Not aware of it?” Geralt echoed back hollowly. “Did I not show you _exactly_ how _aware_ of it I am two weeks ago? Did I not make it _perfectly clear_ how it would be for me if I lost you?”

Jaskier found he couldn’t breathe, and it had nothing to do with being slammed against a stone wall.

“It was _you_ who spent the next fifteen days avoiding me, not singing, not speaking, not even looking me in the fucking eye,” Geralt was seething, “as if I’d done _something unforgivable_ to you. And then you come in here,” he waved a gloved hand at the dark castle around them, “sulking and indignant as if _I_ have been the one _running from his feelings_.” He pushed Jaskier away from him at that last comment, still sneering. He went back to pacing, this time from wall to wall on either side of the hallway, while Jaskier stared after him gaping like a fish. Geralt ran his fingers through the wet tendrils of hair that had fallen in front of his vision, growling in aggravation at the whole situation.

“I…think that is the most words you have ever spoken to me in a single string.” Geralt stopped pacing, and turned to glare at his bard, _not_ amused.

Jaskier cleared his throat. “Alright, I—I wasn’t sure how to proceed. And, I think I just _assumed_ that you wanted to just forget the whole thing.”

“And what,” Geralt asked haughtily, “gave you _that_ impression?”

“You were, I don’t know,” Jaskier winced, “stoic?”

Geralt blinked at him. “Yes, I can see how you reached that conclusion,” he replied dryly. That was, of course, when Jaskier realized just how fully he had fucked up. Before he could reply, Geralt was already walking away.

He stalked toward the opening of the cul de sac, crouching down to pick up his knife, then his sword.

“Where is your chain?” Jaskier asked, biting back a groan as he limped after the witcher.

“Wrapped around the kludde.”

“And, where is the kludde?”

“At the bottom of the lake.”

“Right…for good?”

“For good,” Geralt confirmed. He began to walk out of the hallway. Jaskier tried to keep up with the pace. It was painful, but he didn’t want to be left behind by Geralt, especially after the quarrel they’d just had.

“So, dead?”

“No.”

Jaskier rolled his eyes. Back to being taciturn, then. “Why not?”

“Because if I’d killed it, its corpse would have spawned two more kludde,” he replied casually, still walking at a brisk pace. 

“Ah,” Jaskier said. And that’s all he could think to say the entire trip back to the inn.

vi: Stripped

It was around 3AM when they returned to their room at the inn. Jaskier lit two candles. Geralt dropped his weapons on the floor, then immediately left the room. Jaskier stood there, awkwardly and uncomfortably for at least fifteen minutes, wondering where Geralt had gone and how exactly he planned to handle the one-bed problem. It never had been an issue before, even when they were but platonic companions. But now Geralt was angry with him, and even more terrifying, Jaskier was concerned that the fight they’d just had was a signal that the implicit offer in Geralt’s kiss had been officially _rescinded_. So, what to do about the bed?

He was stirred from his musings by the sound of Geralt opening the door. He walked in carrying two large buckets of water, steaming. Jaskier gawked. 

The buckets were poured into the wooden tub, reaching the halfway mark. He turned and left, coming back moments later with another bucketful of water, this time tepid. The bathwater was still steaming but appeared less painfully hot now.

Geralt shut the door, then turned to meet Jaskier’s gaze. He said nothing, but nodded once at the bucket as if to say, _Get in_.

Jaskier froze. It wasn’t as if Geralt hadn’t seen him bathe before, it was just that every time he’d bathed with Geralt in the room, the man had been doing something routine like sharpening his sword— _and no, that’s not a euphemism, get your head out of the gutter, Jaskier,_ he told himself.

No, that’s not what Geralt meant this time. It was an implicit _I was vulnerable before you, and now I am asking you to return the favor._

Vulnerability. Stripping and bathing after they’d just had a tiff. Jaskier hesitated so long that Geralt had begun to nod, a wry smile forming on his face as he turned away. Quickly, Jaskier stepped forward and began to unbutton his shirt. Geralt watched, something dead in his expression, and he started to wave his hand.

“Jaskier,” he began. _It’s fine_ , it sounded like he was about to say. _Forget it_. 

But Jaskier caught his eye and very deliberately unbuttoned his pants, like a challenge. Geralt huffed a laugh, and let him finish, looking away as he did so. Apparently, it was the witcher who had a sense of decorum.

Leaning over the tub, Jaskier tried to get his foot high enough to clear the tub lip, but his body screamed at him, and his foot came back down heavily as he sucked in a breath. Geralt was by his side in an instant.

“Relax,” he ordered. Then, he scooped Jaskier up and set him into the tub, gentle as if he were handling a newborn.

Jaskier hissed as the hot water surrounded him. “Too hot?” Geralt asked, eyebrows knit in concern. 

The bard shook his head. “No, no. It just feels lovely on my muscles.” He paused. “Are you sure you don’t want to go first? You were dangled in the air and trapped in a cocoon of wings, then you had to drag something more than twice your body weight and tie it to the bottom of a river.” 

Geralt’s face twisted into a humorous grimace. “You went through more, relatively speaking. Humans aren’t meant to be tossed like ragdolls.”

Jaskier coughed out a laugh. To his surprise, Geralt kneeled at his side and poured some soap onto a rag. The bard swallowed hard.

“Geralt—listen, I—”

“Shut up,” he smiled quietly, beginning to wash down Jaskier’s shoulders, rubbing gently at the muscles in his back. 

He continued like this, with Jaskier never quite relaxing, for long minutes. When he reached Jaskier’s neck, he paused to watch his Adam’s apple move as the bard swallowed. And then he gave Jaskier a heart attack; the witcher leaned down to press a tender kiss to his throat.

Jaskier’s hands went up to frame Geralt’s face, feeling himself shaking in the water. His voice came out stronger than he thought it would.

“I wanted to protect you, Geralt, and I’m not ashamed of it. I know it was foolish, and I know it was futile, but I’d do it again, and I’m _not_ sorry.”

Geralt raised a single eyebrow. “Then I am not sorry I lied to you to keep you at the inn.” Offended, Jaskier looked like he wanted to protest, until Geralt continued: “I would do anything to protect you.”

That hit him harder than the kludde’s bloody leg. Jaskier’s breath became shallow, his voice desperate. “Anything?”

Large hands settled over the shaking ones holding Geralt’s face. “Anything short of getting rid of you, Dandelion.”

They both smiled, and Jaskier began to chuckle. “Then I suppose we are at an impasse, because we will both do stupid things to ensure the other’s safety.” 

A trademark “hmm” was his only reply. Then Geralt picked up the rag and continued to soothe his bard’s body.

vii: The Ballad of the Bard and Witcher

That night, they laid side-by-side, Geralt’s arms encompassing Jaskier’s body. And when he woke two hours later from a nightmare that something ghastly had ripped his witcher to shreds, gasping in a cold sweat, it was Geralt who kissed his neck and lulled him back to reality.

Jaskier settled back into Geralt’s arms, soft fingertips running lightly through his hair. He studied the ceiling, his breathing returning to normal. 

“Geralt?” He was rewarded with a characteristic _Hmmm_. “I had to go. I had to, because I couldn’t let you die…” His voice faltered, but Geralt waited. When it came, his voice was but a whisper in the darkness. “I couldn’t let you die without letting you know that I’m in love with you.”

He felt the witcher shift beside him, his body coming to lay parallel to his while Geralt supported his head on his hand. He smiled affectionately down at Jaskier, whose heart beat so loudly that it was deafening to inhuman ears.

“I look forward to the ballads.” He kissed Jaskier for the second time, then, and certainly not for the last.

**Author's Note:**

> Quick note. The kludde is a Belgian legend. It’s actually supposed to spawn seven more if you kill it, but I thought that was (wait for it): OVERKILL. Ha. Ha. (Please laugh at my shitty puns.)


End file.
